


Southern Cooking

by Warp5Complex_Archivist



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-11-01
Updated: 2006-11-01
Packaged: 2018-08-15 23:56:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8078836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Warp5Complex_Archivist/pseuds/Warp5Complex_Archivist
Summary: Malcolm tries to make a home-cooked meal for Trip.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Kylie Lee, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Warp 5 Complex](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Warp_5_Complex), the software of which ceased to be maintained and created a security hazard. To make future maintenance and archive growth easier, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but I may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Warp 5 Complex collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Warp5Complex).

  
Author's notes: This is my response to Kerstin's 'Food Challenge', in which Malcolm has to cook something. 100% Pure Fluff. Contains no significant nutritional value. My thanks to GroovyGoddess for editing this. Any mistakes that remain are mine and mine alone.  


* * *

The crash of breaking glass caused Trip to look up from his book. "Malcolm?" he called. "Is everything all right?" 

"Yes," came the muffled reply from the kitchen. "Don't come in!"

Trip sighed. Malcolm had been barricaded inside the kitchen for the past three hours, presumably working on some kind of surprise for him. Whatever the surprise was, it seemed to involve broken crockery and a lot of cursing. Trip was pretty sure he didn't want to know what was going on in there, so he went out onto the small porch of their rented cottage for some air.

The warm breeze coming off the alien ocean was pleasantly soporific and Trip found himself drawn toward the rope hammock that hung between two of the porch supports. The hammock swayed gently as he climbed in. He put his hands behind his head and closed his eyes. The rhythmic roar of the ocean waves was soothing and before long he felt himself start to drift off into sleep. 

The loud screech of a fire alarm and a string of vile curses pulled Trip back into sudden wakefulness. He started to get up, but the alarm suddenly cut off. The curses continued for a while longer before trailing off into an unintelligible mutter. 

With a sigh, Trip settled back down into the hammock. 

Over the next half hour, he tried to ignore the increasingly disturbing sounds coming from the kitchen, but when the fire alarm went off for the second time he decided that enough was enough. 

"That's it," he said as he climbed out of the hammock. "I'm going in." He went into the cottage and strode up to the kitchen door. "Malcolm, what in the world is going on in he-" 

Trip was stunned into momentary silence. He had been expecting to find a mess, but he hadn't been prepared for the absolute anarchy that greeted him. He coughed and squinted against the stinging haze of smoke that hung in the air. 

The little kitchen had been turned into a war zone. Dirty pots and pans covered the counters and filled the sink to overflowing; a small bag of flour had toppled over onto the floor, powdering the once clean slate tiles with streaks of white; the bruised remains of mutilated vegetables were everywhere; sharp peaks of broken glass stuck out of the overturned garbage can. Angry orange flames were spouting from the heavy cast iron skillet on the stove. 

A ruffled-looking Malcolm was in the process of aiming a fire extinguisher at the conflagration. 

"Wait!" Trip cried when he noticed that the flames were confined to the interior of the skillet. "Just put a lid over it!" He didn't want to spend the rest of his shore leave helping Malcolm clean fire-retardant chemicals off the stove. 

Malcolm glanced wildly around the kitchen, grabbed a large lid, and threw it over the skillet. Small tongues of flame licked out from under the lid for a few moments before they died and were replaced by thin tendrils of oily black smoke.

Trip quickly disconnected the fire alarm before it could go off again. 

"Sodding hell," Malcolm muttered as he slumped against the nearest counter. 

"What the hell happened in here?" Trip asked. He couldn't believe that Malcolm had created this mess all on his own in just a few short hours. It looked like a shipload of angry Klingons had spent several days trashing the place. 

"I was cooking dinner," Malcolm said. "But things didn't exactly go as planned." 

Trip bit the inside of his cheek in order to keep from laughing at the obvious understatement. "Yeah. I can see that," he said. "Why were you trying to cook dinner? You hate cooking." 

Malcolm sighed and ran his hands through his hair. "Do you remember last week when you told me how much you missed Earth and your family?"

"Yeah. What about it?" 

"Well, I thought that having a real Southern meal would help cheer you up a little - you know, give you a taste of home. So I called your mum and asked her -"

"You called my mom?" Trip echoed in surprise. 

"Yes. She was quite nice about it too, even though I accidentally called rather late in the evening. She gave me some recipes for your favorite foods, including one for pan-fried catfish. She said it won some sort of an award at a state fair."

"Wait a minute," Trip said, astonishment coloring his voice, "Mama gave you the prize-winning catfish recipe? I've been begging her to give it to me for years!" 

"And you're going to have to keep on begging because she made me swear on my immortal soul that I wouldn't divulge it to anyone," Malcolm said. "She was quite clear about that and I have no intention of betraying her trust." 

"I don't believe this," Trip said. "My Mama loves you more than she loves me."

"Actually, I think she only gave it to me because she was worried about you. Once I explained that you were feeling homesick, she practically insisted -" 

"You told her I was homesick!" Trip yelped. 

"Well you were," Malcolm said reasonably.

"Yeah, but I didn't think you'd go and tell my mom! It's embarrassing."

Malcolm shrugged. "She said to tell you that she misses you too."

Trip felt a blush creep across his face. He wondered what else his mother and his lover had talked about. 

"I think it's nice that you're close to your family," Malcolm said quietly. "Not everyone is that lucky." 

The subdued comment quelled Trip's irritation. Malcolm almost never talked about his own family, but he always listened attentively when Trip talked about his. And it wasn't just politeness either - Malcolm was clearly intrigued and sometimes even puzzled by the unfamiliar dynamics of Trip's large close-knit family. 

Trip suddenly wished that he had made more of a concerted effort to introduce Malcolm to his family. After all, he and Malcolm had been together for almost three years - more than enough time to warrant a trip home to meet the folks. He reached out and pulled Malcolm into a tight embrace.

"Yeah, you're right," he said. "I am a lucky guy. I've got my family, and I've got you. I couldn't ask for more than that." He placed a gentle kiss on Malcolm's forehead. "Next time we're on Earth, I want you to come home with me and meet my folks in person."

Malcolm shifted nervously in the circle of Trip's arms. "You want me to meet your parents?" 

"Why not? I think it's past time I formally introduced you to them." 

"What if they don't like me?" Malcolm asked, his face creasing with worry. 

"Don't be silly," Trip said. "Mama already likes you. You must have made a really good impression on her if she gave you the prize-winning recipe." 

"I don't think she'd be terribly impressed if she could see the complete mess I made of it," Malcolm said. He wiggled out of Trip's embrace and lifted the lid off the skillet to display the curled blackened catfish fillets within. "It seemed to be coming along rather well before it caught on fire. I guess I had the heat up a little too high." 

"Maybe just a little," Trip agreed carefully. 

"I'm afraid the okra doesn't look very good either. Do people really eat this stuff?"

"It's a Southern thing," Trip explained. He peered down into the pot that Malcolm had uncovered. "Uh...Malcolm? What is that?"

"Okra." Malcolm speared a piece with a fork and lifted it out for inspection. A thin thread of slime drooled off the squishy green mass. 

Trip stared at it in revulsion. "You boiled it? Nobody boils okra! It's supposed to be breaded and fried."

"But your mum's recipe said to cut it up and boil it for twenty minutes," Malcolm protested. 

"It did?" Trip asked with a puzzled frown. 

"Yes, it did. Here. Look for yourself if you don't believe me." Malcolm handed Trip a small sheaf of stained, wrinkled papers. 

Trip examined them for a moment. "I think I see the problem," he said. "Some of these pages are stuck together. You were working off of two different recipes. See?" He held the papers out to Malcolm. "The fried okra recipe was stuck to the recipe for the garlic mashed potatoes." 

"Oh," Malcolm said, "I suppose that explains the potatoes then, too." He cast a wary glance at the other large pot on the stove. 

Trip lifted the lid, but let it drop back down immediately once he caught a whiff of the contents. He backed away quickly. "Okay, that is definitely not right." 

"I didn't think so," Malcolm said with a faint sigh. "You know, your mother assured me that Southern cooking was 'easy as pie', but the pie wasn't all that easy to make either." 

"Pie?" Trip asked, a deep sense of foreboding rising into his chest. "You made a pie too?" 

Malcolm went over to the refrigerator and pulled out malformed object that could have, with a lot of imagination, been mistaken for a pie of some sort. "Your mum said key lime was your favorite." A large glob of runny whipped cream slid off the edge of the pie and fell to the floor with a soft plop. 

Trip suppressed a shudder as he stared at the shockingly green filling. It didn't look anything like his mom's key lime pie. In fact, it looked positively corrosive. 

Malcolm looked down at the misshapen pie. "I suppose it's not right either," he said sadly. "I'm sorry. None of this worked out as well as I had hoped it would. Cooking never was my strong suit. I guess you're just going to have to wait until we get back to Earth to have a real home-cooked Southern meal again."

"Aw, Malcolm, it's the thought that counts, and I see at least one thing in this kitchen that looks downright delicious."

"The pie?" Malcolm asked uncertainly.

"No, not the pie," Trip said.

A look of pure horror crossed Malcolm's face. "Surely you don't mean the mashed potatoes?"

"No, Darlin', not the potatoes." Trip said with a laugh. "I wouldn't eat those on a bet." He took the pie from Malcolm's hands and set it gingerly on the counter. "I mean you." He cupped the side of Malcolm's face in his hand. "Can I have a little taste?" he asked, letting his thumb trace lightly over Malcolm's lower lip. 

"If you insist," Malcolm replied with a playful smile. 

Trip leaned down and kissed Malcolm lightly. "Mmm. Delicious," he said.

"You can have a bit more if you like," Malcolm said. 

The next kiss was harder and deeper. Their tongues touched and swirled against each other. Trip reveled in the warm familiar taste of his lover until the need for air eventually forced them apart. 

"That was a bit more than a taste," Malcolm commented with a grin. 

"Guess I was hungrier than I thought." 

"In that case, help yourself." 

"Don't mind if I do," Trip said. He trailed a quick line of kisses down Malcolm's neck. 

Trip pressed up against Malcolm, pinning him against the counter, rubbing their aroused bodies together. He groped at Malcolm's t-shirt, untucking it from the tight jeans. He slid his hands under the fabric and brushed his fingers over Malcolm's warm skin. 

Malcolm moaned in pleasure. 

Trip was about to pull Malcolm's shirt off when a stack of pots suddenly crashed onto the floor, breaking the mood. 

"Oops," Trip said sheepishly. 

Malcolm just looked at the new mess and laughed. "I love you, Trip." 

"I love you too, Darlin'." 

Malcolm glanced meaningfully at the pots on the floor and then up at Trip. "No, I mean I really, really love you." He cuddled a little closer against Trip's side. 

Trip grinned. "I really, really love you too, Darlin', but you're on your own when it comes to cleaning up this disaster. You made it. You clean it up."

"What happened to the traditional 'I cook, you clean' rule?" Malcolm asked. 

"That only applies to edible meals." 

"Are you sure?" 

"Yup." 

Malcolm sighed in defeat. "I suppose that's only fair. I may have to call in a hazardous waste disposal team to deal with the potatoes, though." He picked up one of the fallen pots and placed it back on the counter. "I hope you don't mind sandwiches for dinner." 

"I've got a better idea," Trip said. "Let's go have dinner at that little seafood restaurant in town, and then when we get back here, we can have dessert." He gave Malcolm an exaggerated leer and a quick pinch on the backside. "And I don't mean the pie." 

"That sounds absolutely wonderful," Malcolm replied, "but I'd rather have dessert first." His hands drifted down to play with the fly of Trip's jeans. 

"If you insist," Trip said with a sparkle in his eye.

"Oh, yes," Malcolm said, pulling Trip closer. "I insist." 

The End


End file.
